


|mud on the floorboards (blood in the grass)|

by littlekaracan



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: "Oh No I Just Killed Someone Oh No", (briefly) - Freeform, Angst with a Happy Ending, Extremely Graphic Descriptions Of Blood And Stab Wounds, Gen, Gilan Is BAMF But He's Also Regretting It Severely, Gilan Is Like 15, Hair Cutting As A Coping Mechanism, Halt Gets It, Halt Is Just BAMF, Hurt/Comfort, Ranger Dad Halt, Sort Of, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24312205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlekaracan/pseuds/littlekaracan
Summary: “You’ll make mistakes,” Gilan will tell Will, gazing into the sea, gloomy and a little chilly. “Hundreds of them. They’re not to be feared.”“What is to be feared, then?” Will shall ask, turning to the man that’s become like an older brother to him. “If not mistakes?”“The right things,” Gilan will answer him eventually, thinking back to when he was barely more than a child, when his master couldn’t have saved him in time, and when he’d done what he’d had to. “You’ll fear doing the right things that feel the most like mistakes. You’ll fear picking the only good choice, only to then realize that, while it wasn’twrong,maybe it was indeed the only correct path, it’ll feel like it might’ve just been the worst one to choose.”
Relationships: Gilan & Halt O'Carrick
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47





	|mud on the floorboards (blood in the grass)|

**Author's Note:**

> hey lads the graphic descriptions of violence warning isn't to be taken lightly here  
> i may have spilled crowley's guts in that one other fic but it wasn't, you know, this bad  
> watch urselves thank u

“Aim for the knee or the calf if they’re not alert.” Halt said, so quietly Gilan had to lean toward him to hear his voice. He nodded, watching the group of men they were chasing move in and out of view through the leaves to their side. Maybe calling their little expedition a chase was a little rich, since they’d been slowing down for the past hour. Halt thought they were going to stop to spend the night sooner or later. He’d been listing various spots in the human body in whispers, Abelard and Blaze trotting along in the same pace as the horses of the bandits to their side. “Don’t overestimate yourself if they are to charge, shoot for the stomach or the pelvis.”

“I know,” Gilan answered, subconsciously picking at Blaze’s saddle.

“You do, now.” Halt wasn’t taking his eyes off the men for a second. “You won’t have time to dig around in your subconscious when you’re under attack from four sides.”

“There’s not that many of them.”

“If you haven’t noticed, there’s not that many of us either.” Even Halt’s whispering was dripping with sarcasm.

“Right. Okay. The stomach.” Gilan smiled absent-mindedly, locating the bandits again.

“Or the pelvis,” Halt added. “That’s if they attack. But we need something to show the Baron apart from a pile of bodies.”

Gilan nodded. Bodies, he recited mentally. Of course there was no maiming a killer on top of you. The men did little to conceal themselves; they’d grown overconfident. They’d grown reckless. They’d become easy targets for a hunt they didn’t even suspect to be going on.

Still, Gilan was pulling and releasing the string of his bow lightly, not nervous but definitely not all that confident of his skill just yet. Of course, Halt was there, and he was eyeing his apprentice in obvious disapproval, a trained ear undoubtedly hearing the silent tug of the string. Gilan bowed his head sheepishly, leaving the bow alone.

Nothing bad would happen. It was supposed to be a moderately easy task, after all.

Soon enough, the group stopped, and Halt stopped along with them, turning Gilan around to go behind them. He was to fire first, taking down as many as he could. When Halt thought it was appropriate, he’d start shooting himself, driving the men away from his apprentice. He had brought enough arrows to finish them off, and he had long-earned enough of Gilan’s trust to have him feel more or less safe while he searched for a spot where the patterns of his cloak would align best with the glimmering coat of leaves and the flickering light flowing in-between the cracks; where the wind would blow in a way that would make him resemble more a shadow of the forest than a figure with a ready bow. Gilan had been good at this instinctive search for a long time – not that he couldn’t get better, however, as Halt, being Halt, would point out near daily.

He watched as the men sat around a campfire, which essentially did nothing than blind them before nightfall. It’ll make it even harder to distinguish whose arrows are flying at them from the trees all around, and the direction in which the threat is hiding. Gilan gave a strained smile and looked up from the campsite at Halt. Frustratingly, it took him a minute to see his teacher. Halt had also clad himself in the much appreciated dusk fog, staring just to the side of the fire, probably counting and re-counting men. Gilan assumed he didn’t want to look at the flame for too long either, lest it makes it harder for his sight to adjust. Noticing the eyes on him, Halt slowly raised one hand.

Gilan drew his bow, hearing the wooden shaft of the arrow scrape softly against the hard bow. He froze in place, arms easily still, thankfully, eyes fixed on Halt’s palm.

It fell down, and Gilan released the arrow.

He didn’t see how it nailed the man’s leg to the ground as he was already aiming for another. He paid no mind to the chaos that ensued when a second bandit shrieked in horror at the sharp tip piercing his shin. While letting go of the third arrow, his breath grew a little harsher, and his fingers quivered.

The man he was aiming for only looked at the arrow stuck in the forest floor and snapped his head his way. Gilan cursed under his breath and barely nocked the fourth one right.

An axe struck an oak three just a meter to his side, and Gilan bit down on his lip as hard as he could to swallow a sharp gasp. A large man had hurled a battle axe his way with little aiming. He stared down the tree he’d hit, undoubtedly sensing he’d almost succeeded. Wordlessly, he held out his hand. One of the other bandits reached for his own axe to pass.

Feeling a surge of both horror and determination in his chest, Gilan turned and released the string instinctively.

A wet smack echoed through the air - the bandit collapsed without so much of a sound. Gilan’s arrow had gone only through his forearm, but a black-fletched arrow was sticking out of his temple, having torn its way through the skull with considerable force.

The next one fell. Then another. Halt’s bow wasn’t quite as merciful as Gilan’s, choosing to pierce more vital targets.

Something rose in his chest, nearly jumping out his mouth, and, instinctively, without any foreseeable reason, Gilan ducked.

It had saved his life, this movement made based on nothing but a sense of danger, because another axe struck the tree by him, this time right where his head had been a few moments ago. He’d been more or less discovered, and a bandit chose to take him down first before searching for the other concealed figure. Gilan didn’t manage to stop a yelp from escaping his throat, clasping a hand over his mouth when it was already too late.

Then the man’s eyes locked right onto his. Gilan sent a silent arrow after him, but numerous others followed his gaze, and, although Halt was cutting them down like wildfire, there was no way he’d get them all in time.

With a pounding heart and only a few good arrows left, Gilan leaped forward, holding onto his bow for dear life, never really defending himself – only aiming left and right in what seemed an almost animalistic daze, feeling as if each and every one of the arrows were borne of his own veins before flying loose.

What remained of sunlight was blocked in an instant, by a huge shadow with a raised axe, identical to the one that almost slashed his head off mere moments ago. The man didn’t hesitate. He brought it down. Gilan’s legs felt like they grew roots into the ground. Realizing he couldn’t possibly leap away now, he raised his bow. It was a desperate last defense; after all, a bow was not a shield.

But, as the axe struck, Gilan came to understand it might’ve not been a mistake.

He felt the wood groan from the impact, then creak and splinter, but not give in yet. The bandit huffed in surprise. He thought he’d chop the young boy in front of him into two halves with the first hit, and no bow could stop that. Regular wood didn’t hold against war axes. But the wood Rangers made their bows out of was a different matter.

Nevertheless, he pressed harder, Gilan struggling to hold the cracking bow up, grunting through grit teeth. His blood ran cold as he heard the wood give a wail – _crack!_ \- and break into two useless pieces.

Immediately, he dove down. The instinct might’ve saved his life again, as the bandit didn’t have enough strength to bring the axe down completely after finishing off his bow. Gilan pushed himself backward then stumbled while getting up, seeing white in his eyes and sensing fire in his chest.

He felt his hand slide down to the scabbard and grab the throwing knife so fast it felt like it jumped into his hand. Not even sure where he was aiming (he meant to go for the chest, or so he thought before remembering someone telling him it wouldn’t penetrate armour), he changed its course at the last second.

Gloriously, it slid into the top of the man’s shoulder, just away from the collarbone, and red spurted from the wound. The man did not scream. He did not have time to. Another black arrow finished the job, shot not from the trees but from a much closer distance – but Gilan didn’t see that, either.

 _You’ll know when you’re being watched eventually_ , Halt used to tell him by their cabin that now seemed so far away.

Gilan felt like now was the end of the ‘eventually’. Spinning on his heel, knowing there was someone behind him in his gut more than his head, he reached down to his belt – for some miraculous reason, his sword had held out. He was not going to complain.

He saw a flash of white just above him. Just over his head. A blade, near identical to his own. He threw his sword up without even having to think about it, heard the deafening shrieking of clashing metal. It went through his head, overwhelming. But he did not train for years to be subdued by sound.

The man was bigger than him, more massive, Gilan could easily tell. It was the rush of battle, or maybe the strict nature of MacNeil's lessons which reminded him that greater size didn't necessarily mean he was more powerful.

He resisted the pressure of the force above him. He resisted the scorching pain in both his arms and legs. The longer he stood, however, the worse it felt. He had to do something, anything.

This man was up for his life. He wouldn't stop at leaving a mere bruise on his forehead and a tip on how to avoid it next time.

He jerked up, then away, like a feline, and he more so heard the sword above him strike the ground than saw it. His brain was a little fuzzy, the cold air made the blood in his veins seem hotter, but he was alive and he had held out.

The next step was simple, driven by nothing but logic, rehearsed and repeated many times over in training.

The few seconds he bought returned some strength to his arms; he struck with the edge of the blade, swinging it forward and around and back again. He knew how messy his movements were. He knew his father and his sword or Halt and his knife could've probably dealt with the situation cleaner, faster. But it was not the time to think about what he could not do. His arms were not trembling.

As the sword cut through air, it hit- no, it _sliced_ , it went through something that felt like fabric but thicker, harder, wetter, so different than the leather he was used to piercing. He felt the cut once and then again, when he was bringing the sword back around and then there was blood before he could even take in what had happened.

Blood - not on him, but only at first, then flowing, slick on his skin, seeping through his clothes. It spurted out from the cut he'd made, much wider and much deeper than he could've guessed.

His eyes met the man's for a single moment. They were wide, slowly rolling back into the skull as he tried to reach and cover the wound with twitching fingers, but it was no help. He was stained red, and a red string tied him to Gilan's sword.

Gilan had frozen in place, mesmerized by the red that was now only gushing out, dripping down and down and down. It was on him, too, a sign of a life he'd stolen. On his clothes. In his hair. Down his forehead and his cheeks and his lips.

Then, the man stumbled forward, an ungodly groan slipping through his teeth, the dragging grunts of a miserable fighter who'd lost a battle and paid the price.

Like a disoriented animal, instead of leaping back, Gilan's body tensed and his arm convulsed almost involuntarily, dragging his sword to his chest and holding onto it for dear life, driving it forward.

It was the only way, the only one, the last resort, his mind screamed, but his mouth was frozen.

The man, who'd dropped his weapon long before losing his balance, fell to his knees, fell and collapsed right onto Gilan's blade. He'd never thought thrusting a sharp edge through someone's chest could be so easy and so straining at the same time.

It went through to the very hilt with some effort, blood oozing down Gilan's forearms and reaching the upper arm. His teeth were clenched both in an attempt to smell as little as he could and from the horror that was slowly settling in as the thick liquid smeared on his skin and stained his clothes, made his hair stick to his forehead. The corpse – Gilan both feared and hoped that the man was dead already - was bleeding from the mouth now, too. Blood mixed with saliva dripped down onto his head and trailed down his cheek. He didn't need to look up to feel it.

Gilan tried to breathe and not to kneel under the pressure at the same time. His lungs were nearly whistling in tension and yet still wouldn't cooperate.

He wasn't aware of the sharp gasp that left his lips as the man's full weight collapsed on him. He couldn't hold out now, no, not anymore. He let the corpse bring him down, fingers still wrapped around the handle, blood still on him. It was _on him, and there was so much._

The body pressed him to the ground, into the dirt, the smell of death so evident he couldn't ignore it. The stench made his head spin and his stomach turn. He pressed his eyes tightly shut - if he opened them, there'd only be more blood.

Someone was calling for him, but his own heartbeat in his temples was too loud for him to recognize anything else than his name.

His death grip on the hilt of the sword loosened slightly as he desperately attempted to push the corpse away from underneath, but the motion only made it fall back down on him harder, forcing a pained cry out of him.

Louder, now. His name was louder.

 _Breathe_ , a voice told him, muffled as it was _. I'll get him off you. Stop squirming_.

What was it talking about? He couldn't. He couldn't move at all. He only resorted to nonsensical whispering.

The blood was sinking through.

Before he could even attempt to follow the voice, the corpse was kicked off with a sharp push, along with his sword- the handle slipped out of Gilan's reach. It went to his side and he could almost feel the hit delivered to it, but he didn't move. The kick wasn't meant for him.

"Gilan." Someone's hands were on his shoulders, holding him down and preventing him from fighting anymore. The hold wasn't too hard however; he could've broken free if he wanted to. "Gil, breathe."

He recognized Halt's voice just in time. And the dark eyes with his own miserable figure reflected above him.

"Calm down," Halt repeated, in a much quieter voice than Gilan knew him to have. For a second Gilan thought he might've made him upset, even though the possibility couldn't scare him more than the stains sticking to him already had. But the look on Halt's face was one of worry, not anger.

"I'm— I'm calm, I'm okay," he tried; he wasn't sure his voice was even audible. His eyes darted. There was still blood on him, he could feel it. Halt had let him go after he'd made sure Gilan wouldn't blindly attack him. Gilan barely turned his head to his side to see glass eyes staring back, a gaping black mouth with the last trails of blood dripping from the tongue. He jerked away, and Halt was near him again, hands hovering just above his wrists.

He felt like he was going to either black out or start crying, neither of which were good options. There were wet trails on his cheeks already though - those might've been blood, if blood were sour.

"—'m gonna be sick," he heard himself say, and there was a dreadful tug in his gut that told him it was an accurate prediction.

As something from the inside forced him to choke on thin air, Halt dragged him forward and over, right hand cool on the back of his neck, left holding him up until he could dig his nails into the grass and somewhat support his own weight, even though his arms seemed more like strings that were seconds away from snapping.

Gilan had felt the contents of his stomach on the wrong way out before, but he'd never thought it'd make him hope for numbness and for complete unawareness. Instead he didn't even manage to regret eating breakfast before the memory of the man's bulging eyes and blood trailing into his mouth and his nose hit him again, over and over, in waves. It was painfully vivid, etched into his mind, no air in his lungs except enough for gasping as his whole body was shaking, with Halt's hand on his shoulder being the only pillar that kept him from collapsing right into the thick mash his stomach decided it didn't want.

And a moment of nothingness. Darkness, his eyes taking in no sight, ears no sound, nose no smell.

"No blood," Halt observed, traces of relief in his voice, breaking the silence. He had somewhat combed Gilan's hair back so the birds’ nest on his head wouldn't get in the way. "You're not wounded?"

"No," Gilan assured, his lips stiff and dry and unwilling to move properly. "It's just— I just—"

He gestured vaguely toward the corpse behind him, and Halt made an unusual noise of sympathy, lightly patting his apprentice on the shoulder before standing up and moving out of Gilan's immediate sight. His boots sank into the wet dirt behind him when he wasn't trying to be silent at all.

"Putting a sword through someone isn't the same as shooting a bow, as I'm sure you've come to realize," Halt said, and it wasn't so much of a lesson than it was sound to cover another - the clutches of a meaty body being torn apart as Halt pulled the sword out. Gilan hung his head, pressing his eyes tightly shut. Halt wasn't urging him go get up yet. "One may argue that it kills either way, but, when you shoot, even if you take the arrow out of the quiver and aim, it's still hitting an enemy away from you. It's not personal. You don't feel it, you can't smell it. At times you don't even hear it."

There was the rustle of grass and Halt knelt by his apprentice again, lending him a hand.

"It's easier to kill with a bow, Gil," he said softly. "I'm sorry you weren’t given a choice."

Gilan took a breath, the air finally reaching his lungs, and stood up. Although his legs were shaking a bit, he was more or less stable.

It was time to go.

Halt watched him take unnaturally short steps, walking by his side lest he decided to stumble or if his legs went stupid. Gilan probably should've been at least a bit insulted by it, but it was just an expression of worry, and he couldn't say that worry was pointless after he'd just lied paralyzed under a dead body.

He wordlessly took his sword back from Halt, who'd returned it with evident reluctance. He felt a leaf or some kind of solid dirt that was absent-mindedly picked from his hair. How his mentor wasn't disgusted by it, Gilan had no idea, because he, for one, was. Halt had suggested he cut his hair a few times, warning him that it might get in the way, but Gilan always had a few witty responses to the offer, all of which had escaped him now. He felt plain miserable, both inside and out.

He'd taken a life.

And he would eventually have to do it again.

It scared him.

* * *

Back in the cabin, everything was oddly silent. Halt even started humming quietly at some point despite his usual animus towards that sort of thing, undoubtedly unsettled by the lack of Gilan's usual chatter.

Gilan had asked to borrow his saxe knife on the way back, trying not to sound too suspicious. In the end, it was simple; he just always found Halt's to be sharper than his, even if this wasn't really true. Perhaps it seemed like that because Halt was simply more familiar with using it, and so it reflected.

He didn't know why he was doing what he was doing, but it felt right. It felt like he was trying to stitch up wounds he didn't have. All the mucus and the blood and the dirt in his hair and on his head weighed him down on the way back. Somewhere deep down, he thought washing it out just wasn't enough of an option. Now, long strands of hair fell to the floor of his room. Gilan threw it all away. It felt as if a basket of stones had slipped off his shoulders.

On his way to the kitchen, he ran his fingers through his now significantly shorter hair. It did not look good, he was certain of that, it probably looked worse than Halt’s, if there was even a comparison to be made. But it wasn’t like it mattered. It was clean. It was better.

Halt's face didn't give away any sort of emotion when Gilan put his saxe knife on the table and silently thanked him. He only pulled the blade back to him with two fingers on the handle and slipped it back into his scabbard, unwilling to question but definitely curious.

"I'll, it'll grow back," Gilan explained vaguely, one hand still hanging awkwardly from his hair. He promptly shoved it behind his back. "I just, I think I just needed that. You know."

"Okay." Halt nodded, raising a hand. He understood. Gilan felt glad he didn't need to justify himself further; he wouldn't really have known how. "I'm assuming you're not hungry."

"No."

"Nausea?"

"No, not anymore."

"You're alright."

"Yeah, I'm just, uh." He still was a little disoriented. But it was getting better. It'd get better, Halt had told him as he collapsed on top of poor Blaze. Slowly. But he'd get used to it. "Bit dizzy's all."

Halt watched him search for words, then flop down next to him and drink his coffee in silence. Gilan was thinking, and Halt was willing to wait for his words.

"I don't wanna get used to that," he finally said, eyeing the wall right in front of him instead of looking at Halt. "It was..." He shook his head, gesturing vaguely. "Well, you know. And I don't— I know I'll _have_ to, but I don't want to, and I know I _will_ , and it won't matter, but it doesn't make it better right now and—..." He knew he wasn't making much sense, and Halt probably couldn't understand half of it, he was trailing off involuntarily and forced himself to shut up.

Halt let the silence linger for a second, then simply wrapped an arm around Gilan's shoulders.

"Guilt doesn't vanish quickly," he said quietly, almost as if he didn't want to. "But we don't kill for enjoyment. We kill because if we don't, they'll kill us. It doesn't take away the impact of what we do, but it's at least somewhat justifiable."

"Is it?" Gilan pressed, eyes firmly planted in his now empty coffee mug. "Is it ever?"

"Gil, I have no clue." Halt stifled a laugh, and Gilan felt his hand quiver slightly. He raised an eyebrow - his mentor rarely ever was unsure of anything. "But I sure don't want you or me dead."

Gilan gave a sigh of frustration. In the end, Halt was right. He'll feel horrible. But he'll be alive. _Nobody ever said being a Ranger was going to be nice_ , he thought. In fact, pretty much the opposite. And he, for one, knew that.

He knew he'd face the world sooner or later. Maybe the sooner he does, the easier it'll be.

"And while I won't say 'they asked for it', _they_ attacked _us_."

He was right – before the actual chase had begun, Gilan and Halt weren’t even informed of any malicious groups in the vicinity yet. It was only when Halt stopped them in their tracks, went on his usual _Someone’s watching us_ talk and then Gilan had to try very hard not to get his skin sheared off by an angry bloke with a battleaxe that they even knew someone was being cranky around the woods.

Then, of course, the Baron, the task – and they rode out.

"Why?"

Halt shrugged, and, letting him go, turned to the table, one hand subconsciously tugging on his silver leaf. He seemed glad to move on from the impact of murder and just focus on the logic.

"Why, indeed. They knew we were Rangers, no mistaking men for hunters when they're wearing our cloaks." Gilan felt a little spark of pride in his chest. _We're Rangers,_ he said, both him and Gilan. It felt nice, even after today's incident. "Why attack Rangers, really, and from a distance, too. They were just giving bows the upper hand. So why do it?"

He glanced at Gilan, raising an eyebrow. Waiting for him to speak, undoubtedly.

"They could've acted on impulse," he tried. "Maybe they saw us, thought we were going to just shoot them when we saw them, whether they attacked or surrendered."

Halt tilted his head in acceptance. "Yes, they could've been superstitious or overconfident. Or they might've been from a different kingdom altogether."

Gilan quirked up, interested.

"How can you tell?"

"By the accent." Halt shrugged. "It doesn't sound like anything I've heard Araluenians come up with, dialect and all.”

“You heard them speak?”

“Oh, they spoke, alright.” He brushed a finger across his saxe knife absent-mindedly, a thin smile across his face. “Mostly battle cries and warnings, but nothing brings out natural speech like a life-or-death situation, believe it or not.”

“But it's not a full-proof guess, is it?“ Gilan continued. “You have a bit of an accent, too.” He was sugar-coating, really, but he didn’t want to get into yet another debate over Halt’s maybe-or-maybe-not-Hibernian origins.

Halt tilted his head slightly, in thought. “Which is why speech is a good clue, but it won’t give you definitive answers. Their accent could've also been the outcome of their parentage, the way they were raised, or it could've just been a means of disguise that’s taken root over time."

“But,” he interrupted, bowing his head to Halt’s raised eyebrow in apology. “If they were from around here, wouldn’t it make sense that they would know that Rangers were different from woodsmen?”

“Don’t take reputation for granted. When it comes down to it, don’t take anything for granted, lest you want to be proven wrong,” Halt advised, nodding somewhere toward the door. Gilan felt his ears burning up. Well, he’ll be damned if he really wasn’t proven wrong today. “The axes also point in our favour – while they’re good weapons if you know how to use them, they’re not ones Araluenians usually prefer.”

Halt had turned to absent-mindedly watch the starless sky above the blurred horizon through an open window. And although there was nothing to see except for the blinding night, sometimes Gilan genuinely wondered if his teacher could see through darkness.

“We can’t know who they were for sure at the moment.”

“But?” There’s no way Halt of all people would be letting it go.

“We haven’t finished our job yet,” he said, and Gilan followed his eyes, also finding himself facing the uncertainty settling right by the cabin. A lot of things really seemed rather different during the night. “Some bolted once we took down enough. They may be reckless, but they’re not complete dolts. I passed a letter, guards are on a look-out, they’ll be able to direct us, more or less. They won’t get away too far, at least not a distance we couldn’t track. Of course, it would’ve been easier to chase them right after.”

“Then why didn’t we?” Gilan asked, and the answer immediately – and a bit embarrassingly - hit him over the head.

“Because I know what shock does, Gil,” Halt answered, his voice a little dry. “Do you think you could’ve raised your sword again if we found them, say, half-an-hour later? Would you be able to focus on aiming your bow where it mattered?”

“No,” Gilan admitted.

“Right - I could’ve taken a few more of them down, and, in retaliation, they’d take you down when I wouldn’t be looking.”

Gilan crossed his arms, staring down his legs. “I’m not that helpless.”

“I didn’t say you were helpless. But you, of all people, should know not to overestimate yourself.” He snorted lightly as Gilan pulled his lip, no doubt recalling the same stream Halt threw him into when his childish pride got a bit ahead of him a bit ago. “Don’t think much of it.”

“It gets better,” Gilan echoed his words.

“It does.” Halt paused. “But if you stay up here discussing linguistic intricacies until it’s dawn, you’re going to fall off Blaze tomorrow.”

“I—... Yeah. Right.” He slipped from behind the table and out of the kitchen, stopping right at the door to glance over his shoulder. Halt had already taken to another task, which seemed to be some short letter to the Commandant, judging by the hasty handwriting and a simple oak leaf print. Before leaving him to it, Gilan said, quietly: “Thank you.”

The quill stopped moving in Halt’s hand for a second.

“Go to sleep.”

Closing the door behind him, Gilan chuckled.

He ran his fingers through his hair one last time. Only now did he remember how proud of it he used to be. And how nice it felt to cut it off, as if it was a purge of the blood that got inside. It’d grow back out, as he’d told Halt, and it wouldn’t be bloody or dirty, and he’ll be used to it by then, it’ll have _gotten easier_ by then. Sleep – however little of it shall he have – came to him oddly easily.

Tomorrow should be a better day.

**Author's Note:**

> hug this poor boy, he won't have a worse day until will gets snatched
> 
> thank u for reading friends!  
> if u liked it, bleasze consider a... comment? :>


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